Dangerous Diana (Brambridge Novel 3) by Pearl Darling Page B
Authors: Pearl Darling
Tags: Fiction, Romance, Historical, Adult, series, Regency, England, Military, romantic suspense, 19th century, Bachelor, Victorian, Britain, Forever Love, Single Woman, Hearts Desire, London Society, Brambridge, War Office, British Government
Ads: Link
would probably call it an antidote. He clapped a hand to his forehead as a hot shiver ran through him. Help from what, though, exactly?
CHAPTER 8
Melissa rubbed underneath the glass of her spectacles at the rogue tear that had collected at her nose. It had been her last resort. She had had to offer a kiss. It was the only bargaining chip that she had ever known that any man she met had ever wanted.
She slowly rose to her feet from her ignominious position on the floor. It was a case of more fool her. Testing his will had been like flying a red flag at a bull.
She hung her head. She hadn’t been able to stop her hands stealing up the contours of his massive back, and encircling his powerful shoulders, her body unconsciously pressing itself closer to his broad torso.
She righted her glasses on her nose and leaned against the bookshelf with a sniff. Absently she stroked her lips with her hand. How many other women had he kissed in the same way? He had reacted so strongly to her taking over his chair, she couldn’t believe that he had ever let a woman into his inner sanctum, which did not say much for any of his relationships, mistresses or otherwise. Oh dear. These were dangerous thoughts.
And yet he did not seem like the same boy to whom the book on Cicero was dedicated. She rolled his name around on her tongue, Hades , Hades Harding. It was the name of the god of the Underworld. It was apt, she found the earl as beautiful and handsome as sin, and as muscular as any Greek god statue. And yet she could see why he did not advertise it.
The inscription in the book had been even more interesting.
Dearest Hades, Wishing you every happiness, my serious darling, on your thirteenth birthday. Remember that as Cicero explains, behind every defeat there is a triumph, and every sadness, a joy.
Mama
It seemed at first sight rather imposing advice to write to a thirteen-year-old. But then Melissa had read the Cicero letters from cover to cover. The inscription did not mean to say that out of every defeat someone else will triumph, or even that someone else would feel joy at one’s sadness. It meant that a defeat could be turned into a victory, or even sadness into a joy.
She could not comprehend why a thirteen year old would need such advice at such an early age. But clearly the man was still as serious as the day when he received the book.
Shaking her skirts out, Melissa pushed herself away from the stacks of books and stepped gingerly towards the leather chair. Her legs wobbled slightly, shock, perhaps. She had seen similar symptoms in patients that had nearly been hit by carriages, or who had fallen from horses. Normally she recommended a strong cup of tea but in some cases they had sworn by a tot of rum instead.
Her eyes fell on the tantallus on the mantelpiece above the fire. Just one sip wouldn’t hurt. When she had stayed with Lady Colchester whilst Lord Stanton had endeavored to draw Eliza and Edgar and their hellish plans out, the women seemed to have drunk strong spirits on a daily basis.
With fuzzy movements, she unstoppered the glass jug and poured a measure into a waiting glass. As she stoppered the jug again, she caught a quick glimpse of herself in the glass above the fire. Her glasses glinted in the ever-present firelight and her hair stood on end.
She smoothed her hair and took off her glasses, thrusting them in her pocket. Squinting slightly, she regarded herself in the mirror again. That was much better. Perhaps that was why her attempt to buy her freedom had not worked. Melissa eyed the glass of brandy. She grasped the glass and tentatively took a sip.
The liquid slid smoothly down her throat. Licking her lips to gain all of the sweetness, she took another sip, and another. It really was rather good. Seeing that her glass was already half-finished, she poured herself another generous measure. Silently wishing herself good health in the mirror, she tottered to the leather chair and fell into it
CHAPTER 8
Melissa rubbed underneath the glass of her spectacles at the rogue tear that had collected at her nose. It had been her last resort. She had had to offer a kiss. It was the only bargaining chip that she had ever known that any man she met had ever wanted.
She slowly rose to her feet from her ignominious position on the floor. It was a case of more fool her. Testing his will had been like flying a red flag at a bull.
She hung her head. She hadn’t been able to stop her hands stealing up the contours of his massive back, and encircling his powerful shoulders, her body unconsciously pressing itself closer to his broad torso.
She righted her glasses on her nose and leaned against the bookshelf with a sniff. Absently she stroked her lips with her hand. How many other women had he kissed in the same way? He had reacted so strongly to her taking over his chair, she couldn’t believe that he had ever let a woman into his inner sanctum, which did not say much for any of his relationships, mistresses or otherwise. Oh dear. These were dangerous thoughts.
And yet he did not seem like the same boy to whom the book on Cicero was dedicated. She rolled his name around on her tongue, Hades , Hades Harding. It was the name of the god of the Underworld. It was apt, she found the earl as beautiful and handsome as sin, and as muscular as any Greek god statue. And yet she could see why he did not advertise it.
The inscription in the book had been even more interesting.
Dearest Hades, Wishing you every happiness, my serious darling, on your thirteenth birthday. Remember that as Cicero explains, behind every defeat there is a triumph, and every sadness, a joy.
Mama
It seemed at first sight rather imposing advice to write to a thirteen-year-old. But then Melissa had read the Cicero letters from cover to cover. The inscription did not mean to say that out of every defeat someone else will triumph, or even that someone else would feel joy at one’s sadness. It meant that a defeat could be turned into a victory, or even sadness into a joy.
She could not comprehend why a thirteen year old would need such advice at such an early age. But clearly the man was still as serious as the day when he received the book.
Shaking her skirts out, Melissa pushed herself away from the stacks of books and stepped gingerly towards the leather chair. Her legs wobbled slightly, shock, perhaps. She had seen similar symptoms in patients that had nearly been hit by carriages, or who had fallen from horses. Normally she recommended a strong cup of tea but in some cases they had sworn by a tot of rum instead.
Her eyes fell on the tantallus on the mantelpiece above the fire. Just one sip wouldn’t hurt. When she had stayed with Lady Colchester whilst Lord Stanton had endeavored to draw Eliza and Edgar and their hellish plans out, the women seemed to have drunk strong spirits on a daily basis.
With fuzzy movements, she unstoppered the glass jug and poured a measure into a waiting glass. As she stoppered the jug again, she caught a quick glimpse of herself in the glass above the fire. Her glasses glinted in the ever-present firelight and her hair stood on end.
She smoothed her hair and took off her glasses, thrusting them in her pocket. Squinting slightly, she regarded herself in the mirror again. That was much better. Perhaps that was why her attempt to buy her freedom had not worked. Melissa eyed the glass of brandy. She grasped the glass and tentatively took a sip.
The liquid slid smoothly down her throat. Licking her lips to gain all of the sweetness, she took another sip, and another. It really was rather good. Seeing that her glass was already half-finished, she poured herself another generous measure. Silently wishing herself good health in the mirror, she tottered to the leather chair and fell into it
Similar Books
